


Manicure

by chibiVeneficus



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fail!sex, Friendship, Hands as an erogenous zone, M/M, Non-Sticky Sex, Transformers Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiVeneficus/pseuds/chibiVeneficus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoist would rather like it if everyone would stop propositioning him. Or, at the very least, see him through an overload.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manicure

**Author's Note:**

> A re-post of one of my [fills on the kink meme.](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/8251.html?thread=7512123#t7512123)
> 
> The request [can be found over here.](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/3587.html?thread=6379779#t6379779)
> 
> Many thanks to [eerian_sadow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eerian_sadow) again for proofreading this! :D

The berth was a tight fit, meant for mechs much smaller in stature than him, but Hoist had been adamant at the beginning in that the floor was not the proper place for intimate interactions. He had to deal with his choice even though the sharp drop-off that marked the berth’s end cut into the back of his forelegs. He ignored the annoying pain in favor of the smaller hand held in his, rolling the silver fingers between his own and stroking the palm with his thumb at odd moments. Hoist’s actions brought forth a pleased huff from the minibot settled in his lap and the rough caress of the mini’s energy field against his own had his circuits warm up in slow interest.

Hoist just couldn’t get that…into it, though. Even as his actions brought out pleasured cries from his companion, the medic found his processor wandering to inventory lists and viral check-ups that needed to be scheduled for next month. Routine made his motions mechanical and extreme familiarity with the mech in his arms made the pleasurable activity almost like a chore rather than a nice stress relieving act like it was suppose to be.

A small hand gripped hard on his nozzle and Hoist absentmindedly sent low electric shocks through the metal, finally tripping the minibot into overload. Even the thrill of an overloading field pressed against his own only merited a small grunt of pleasure, more reflex than anything else. Hoist rested his head against the orange hood that covered the minibot’s head, continuing his soft minstrels to the hand while the mini basked in the afterglow of overload.

Huffer released the heated air in his vents all at once, producing a loud gust that tickled Hoist‘s plating. “I’d needed that,” the minibot said, flexing his hands around the appendages he still held.

“Feeling better?”

“Mmmhmm.” Huffer stroked the nozzle pressed against his chest. “Want me to return the favor?”

While the offer did sound nice, Hoist was sure that accepting it would only lead to frustration on both of their parts. He politely declined (Huffer shrugged. “Suit yourself.”) and wiggled around until the orange minibot was splayed out on the berth with him standing beside it. Hoist went to excuse himself, but Huffer spoke up before he could do so.

“But really, I can’t remember the last time you got off. All of this getting boring to you?” Huffer asked. His tone of voice missed any sort of concern and hit more along the lines of impersonal courtesy.

Hoist couldn’t really say yes to that even though he _was_ bored with not only interfacing with his fellow hand fetishists, but interfacing in general. It would be too rude. So he went with another truth, hoping not to offend the minibot’s own touchy regards to the subject.

“Not bored, per say; merely tired. Ever since word got around that Jazz failed to make me overload, ‘bots have been lining up outside my door to try their hand at doing so.”

“Never would have guessed that would be a bad thing. At least you _have_ ‘bots willing to have a go at you. That thought never crosses their processors when they look at me.”

“Ah yes. Having someone roughly paw at your hand only to ignore it once they heat up enough is a wonderfully pleasant way to pass the time.” Hoist knelt down beside the berth and took Huffer’s nearest hand in his own. He nuzzled it against his faceplate, trying to take the frustrated sting out of his words. “Consider yourself lucky that you don’t have to patch up wounded egos as well as broken plating. It’s too much work and whatever pleasure you get out of it is soiled by their ignorance and uncaring attitude.”

Huffer grunted out something that could’ve been interpreted as an affirmative before he took his hand back and shooed the medic towards the door. “Get out of here. Your presence is soiling my good mood, what little I still have of it now.”

Pleased that his companion was back to his usual scowling self, Hoist said his goodbyes and made his way to the medbay. His shift wasn’t scheduled until the following day but the medic didn’t fancy dealing with the inevitable propositions that awaited him if he crossed too close to the rec room, or his own room for that matter. Filling out forms and cleaning medical tools was a more appealing notion to him than dealing with the fallout of another failed interface.

* * *

Grapple hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Hoist until he found the mech speaking with Tracks one day. He didn’t know what Hoist was talking with the Corvette about but whatever it was had Hoist tense and angry. Not that one could gauge it from his words -- they were speaking too lowly to be clearly heard from the architect’s position -- but in the way he held himself. The yellow panels on the medic’s back were held high and rigid and the nozzle attached to his right arm tapped against his thigh, all indicators that Hoist was quite annoyed. Grapple had never seen his friend so worked up before while trying to keep a calm front.

He intervened when Tracks apparently said the wrong thing and Hoist’s calm voice was briefly overlaid with harsh static.

“Excuse me, I do hope I’m not interfering,” Grapple said even though that was exactly what he was hoping to do, “but I am need of Hoist’s services at the moment.”

“Can’t it wait?” Tracks said and somehow managed to make those three words sound incredibly offensive. He leveled a haughty glare at Grapple before turning his attention back on Hoist.

The medic vented a sigh. Grapple had to resist the urge to lay a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“I’m sorry, Tracks, but I have promised Grapple my time whenever he needed me. If you’ll excuse me --”

“Oh, well, don’t mind me then. I was just about to leave anyway.” Tracks brushed Hoist off, sweeping out of the hallway with all the wounded dignity he could muster. He left behind him a tense silence that was broken when Grapple spoke up.

“My dear Hoist, are you alright?”

“Fine, fine. What is it that you needed my help with?”

Grapple waved the question off. “Nothing that can‘t wait for a bit. It looked like you needed an out. What was that all about?”

“Tracks and I had a bit of a…miscommunication,” Hoist said. He scraped the back of his knuckles against his faceplate as he elaborated. “I told him one thing and he went and did another. It’s nothing, really, but I do wish he wouldn’t think that it was all my fault that things didn’t go exactly as planned.”

“Yes, he can be a bit of a handful when things don’t go his way.” Grapple ignored his fellow’s pointed look. He knew his own faults, thank you very much, but at least he wasn’t as dramatic about them as Tracks was…most of the time.

“But enough about that. Whatever happened to your hand?”

“My hand?” Hoist asked, raising his arm up more so that he could view the appendage. It was covered in nicks and scratches and the paint on the palm was almost scoured completely off, showing off the plain silver of the metal underneath. There were strange thin things sticking out of some of the joints and when the fingers flexed, something inside squeaked. It was a mess. Grapple was appalled that Hoist had let his precious hand be reduced to such a state and told him such.

Hoist just did that little ‘aw, shucks’ motion when he wanted to play off some serious transgression and Grapple normally would have let it pass. But his friend was still riled up from Tracks’s comments and Grapple didn’t mind helping Hoist with some simple maintenance, especially if it helped the medic wind down and relax. He took the damaged hand into his own, ignoring his friend’s protests, and started down the hallway towards his room.

“Oh come now, Hoist,” the architect chided as he pulled his friend unwillingly along, “it won’t be trouble at all and I know for a fact that your shift ended a while ago. Think of it as a repayment for all those times you took care of me when I was too helm deep in a new project to take care of myself.”

“If it’s really alright…”

“Yes. Now come along -- there’s plenty that needs doing,” Grapple said and continued down the hall with his captive in tow.

* * *

Not for the first time, Hoist wished he still had both his hands. He could have easily taken care of his hand maintenance by himself and therefore avoided Grapple’s abnormal demand that he take care of it for him. This sudden role reversal was terrifying in a way.

The situation was also very uncomfortable since his field pulsed hot and heavy with frustrated arousal. Even though he hadn’t overloaded, Tracks’s attempt to make him do so had revved him up higher than any tries by previous mechs. Hoist had hoped he could have gently talked Tracks down from his hissy-fit and take care of himself in the privacy of his own quarters but Grapple had appeared and now he was sitting in his friend’s room with his hand soaking in a bowl of paint solvent and his field was _still_ aching for stimulation.

The only saving grace in the matter was that Grapple seemed completely oblivious to said arousal. For the first time ever, Hoist thanked Primus for his friend’s density in such matters and hoped that he could get through this evening without any awkwardness forming between them.

“There we go. All set,” Grapple said as he organized the pile of tools he had gathered from around his quarters on the table. “Now, let’s see your hand.”

Hoist did as he was told and was startled to see how much damage the thinning paint had been hiding. He hadn’t realize that his hand had been in such poor repair but, then again, he had had so many ‘partners’ in the past few weeks that he’d been overwhelmed and frazzled. He hadn’t had time to check himself over.

Grapple tsked, drying the stripped hand before turning it this way and that and choosing a pair of tweezers. He started at the wrist, plucking the thin organic strands out with a grimace of distaste.

“How on Earth did you get hay stuck all up in here?” Grapple asked as several more strands were removed.

“I haven’t the foggiest.” He was pretty sure that he had acquired the vegetation when Hound had propositioned him. In hindsight, Hoist was certain that accepting said proposition while out in the middle of a field had been an error of judgment but he had wanted to get the interface over with as quickly as possible. He had thought that the shower afterward had gotten rid of all the evidence but apparently not.

With the last strand deposited in the nearby waste bucket, Hoist watched Grapple select a square of fine grain sandpaper and work on the scratches that littered the surface of his hand. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation but it wasn’t _un_ pleasant either. The sensors on his hand felt raw from being washed in the solvent but the sand paper was fine enough that it didn’t rub his sensors into agonized lumps. Thankfully Grapple didn’t ask any questions as to where any of the nicks had come from -- Hoist wasn’t sure he could explain to him that Bluestreak bite down on whatever was in his mouth when he overloaded.

He suffered through the treatment in silence. The only good thing that came from the sanding was that the scratches were gone and that his arousal was being quenched to more manageable levels. Hoist believed himself to be in the clear until Grapple picked up a bottle of WD-40 and sprayed his joints with the lubricate.

Oh, but he had forgotten what it was like to have his finger joints properly oiled. His servos had been rubbing together for the longest time now that he had grown use to the irritants being there.

Grapple carefully sprayed each nut and washer, every single screw and bolt, and manually rotated the joints to make sure the coating was evenly applied. Hoist was sure he was heading towards the Matrix. The treatment felt absolutely _divine_. So much so that when his arousal perked back up, he didn’t try to fight it.

Once Grapple was done with the can, he switched it for a scrap cloth that had been soaking in a solution of cleanser. He dapped it around the joints, cleaning away the stray oil that hadn’t made it into the crevasses before drying it with a different cloth he had at hand. Grapple maneuvered Hoist’s hand all around to check for any missed spots and Hoist had to throttle back on a purr that tried to escape his engine.

“There we go. Now, flex your hand for me. I want to hear if that squeak is still there.”

Hoist complied once the command filtered through the haze of pleasure in his processor. He squeezed his hand into a fist and the only noises that could be heard were the soft hisses of hydraulics working together.

“Ah, very good,” Grapple said, his voice radiating satisfaction. A roll of masking tape was the next item to be chosen and Grapple’s motions with it were lost on Hoist. The medic was still basking in the pleasure of his joints being properly oiled.

An air compressor started up and the racket brought Hoist out of his pleasant daze for a moment. Then Grapple was slowly going over the silver metal of his hand with a white primer and Hoist lost himself to the sensation of having a massage on the micro-level. The airbrush assaulted his sensors with millions of tiny specks of information, from pressure to temperature to what substances the paint was derived from, to more. It soothed away the aches from the solvent and the sanding, leaving his sensitive sensors thrumming with charge and Hoist couldn’t hold back a moan that was lost in the loud **_grrrrrrrrn_** produced by the compressor.

It was over too soon. Hoist was left with his arousal uncomfortably high again as Grapple laid down the air brush to turn on the heat lamp attached at the table’s end. The slow warming bulb wasn’t distractive enough as his friend cautiously peeled the wet masking tape off and Hoist was glad Grapple was silent when he was concentrating on a task because he didn’t think he would be able to listen or speak with any sort of coherency now.

But then Grapple was _blowing on his hand_ and the fact that it was _Grapple_ doing it, pampering him without trying to meet some hidden agenda had Hoist on the brink of overload. He immediately thought back to when Brawn had almost squeezed his hand into scrap metal and the impending overload receded a bit at the unpleasant memory, just enough that he could think again. By then the primer was dry and the masking tape reapplied and Hoist only had enough time to whimper before the air compressor started its clamor and the delightful torture began anew.

Hoist lost track of what was happening. All he could concentrate on was the charge building up in his circuits and that it had been so _long_ since he’d had any pleasurable emotions in regard to this activity and Grapple was asking him something now but he couldn’t quite understand the words and when he asked for him to repeat them, all that came out was a pleading whimper for him to _finish the job, please!_ Grapple said something else but that didn’t register to Hoist because all he could concentrate on was that the sensors on his hand weren’t being stimulated anymore and that his circuits would surely melt if the charge didn’t dissipate now.

And then Grapple was pressing down on his hand with the right amount of force and Hoist couldn’t restrain his engine from turning over or the moan that escaped his vocalizer. He was sure he would be horrified at his actions later but he couldn’t stop his wild energy field from seeking out Grapple’s and then he must have moaned out something about mouths because his digits were encased in a wet warmth and a slick glossa was stroking them and --

Overload tore through him with brutal force, as if it was making up for all the times that it had been denied him. Hoist was swept away by the charge crackling through his circuits. Every inch of his frame was tense with an ecstasy he had forgotten about years ago. It seemed to go on forever but then his frame slowly relaxed as the harsh charge degenerated into a pleasant afterglow and he was more than happy to bask in it.

He was brought out of his reprieve when an engine released a soft grind that called for his attention. Hoist onlined his visor (when had it turned off?) and Grapple was looking at him with a peculiar look and, oh scrap, there was that awkwardness he had been afraid of.

The seconds seemed to go on for hours. Hoist didn’t know what to say to break it and was left floundering in the silence as Grapple just _looked_ at him. He was ready to just bolt for the doors and maybe hide in the _Ark’_ s sublevels for the next six months when Grapple finally spoke up, repeating Hoist‘s own words spoken weeks ago.

“Feeling better?”

Not know what else to do, Hoist nodded his head.

“Good. Now, I want you to look over some of these blueprints for a solar powered tower I’ve thought up recently. Let’s clear off the tabletop first…”

“Wait a moment,” Hoist said when he finally found where his vocalizer had run off to. He almost wished he hadn’t as Grapple _looked_ at him again but he dredged up some courage and continued. “What about what just happened?”

“What about it?”

“I just overloaded from your attentions and you’re not the least bit curious as to why?”

“Hoist,” Grapple said in fond amusement, “give me more credit than that. I do have experience in regards to fluxing energy fields.”

“But my hand. How did you --”

“That certain rumor concerning how sensitive medics’ hands are has been around for a long time, Hoist. I was more than happy to find out if it was true or not. However,” Grapple’s face contorted into a grimace as he continued, “if we are to do this again it will not be right after I repaint your hand. Foul tasting stuff that paint is.”

Hoist sat there as Grapple cleared off the table, briefly immobile from the sheer surreality of everything that had happened. Part of him mentally kicked himself to help out with the cleaning and he started to do so when that last sentence finally computed in his scrambled processor.

“Again? You‘ll do this again?”

“Unless you don’t want there to be a next time. I’m more than happy to help a friend out, Hoist. Especially you.”

“It’s just that…most mechs are put off by the whole hand thing,” Hoist said, still not quite believing that this was really happening. He had had so many offers of companionship but when he had told them up front about his hot spot, they had more or less dismissed it before trying to make him overload _their_ way. It had lead to so many frustrated nights that he found it hard to consider that even Grapple, his closest friend, would humor him in this matter.

But Grapple had gone out of his way to fix up his hand and, _wow_ , what a fix it had been.

“Oh pish posh. That doesn’t matter to me. The way I consider it, it’s just another little quirk that you have, the way all mechs have quirks,” Grapple said as he plucked a blueprint from his subspace and smoothed it down on the table.

“…Thank you, Grapple.” Even as Hoist said it, those words seemed far too inadequate to truly encompass how grateful he was.

“You’re welcome. Now, take a look at this structure I’ve designed…”


End file.
